Black suit, the black so deep you think you're in a Hi-Fi movie theater; makeup and hair so perfect, you know everyone spent all morning in the bathroom; only whispers beneath the sound of utensils, you know it's all about the young man whose portrait sits on the chair. The eye tries to escape the heavy, dark atmosphere. It crawls along the wall with its exposed river rocks knee high and mahogany wood paneling above. Only a short glance at the ceiling makes the eye dart back down. The ceiling is low, held by heavy beams that evoke the oppressive feeling of imminent collapse. A small window with cross beams opens the view onto the lawn around the hunting lodge and the dry forest beyond, where scrawny deer are bloodied by men drinking Coors light.
A young woman sat upright, her back facing the big round table for eight. Ivory-white Revlon foundation covered her entire face. The ceiling lights reflected off her high gloss Maybelline Red Revolution lipstick. The dark mascara and meticulously groomed eyebrows made her blue eyes radiate brilliance. A black mesh veil cut thin, black, diamond-patterned lines across her face, hanging down from the little black Robin Hood-inspired hat. The look of the twenty-four year old was so dramatic that the men thought it as perfect as an actress for a high def close up porn and the women thought it as perfect as a princess from a fairy tale.
Four marines filed into a line in front her. The skinny, white leather straps, the golden buttons, the little pockets in the vest, honorary ribbons, and of course the needle-spikey saber at the side. They faced straight ahead. Their eyes were fixed on a distant point, like a port on the other side of the ocean. There was a little terror in their gaze, like it had been drilled into them. Their faces were so clean and smooth like boys taken from playing around the creek in trunks and making dirty jokes followed by lots of snickering. One stepped forward to present a ceremonially folded American flag. A white cotton-gloved hand was placed beneath and another positioned on top was positioned with the precision of a laser guided bomb. The young woman grabbed the flag. Her drunk hand missed the first time and the second time smashed the thing on the table next to her on the pile of envelopes and photos.
Next up was aunt Mathilda. Her fat heels overflowed the black slip on black flats. She had had to convert a tent into a dress to fit her fat belly and hips into it. The skin underneath her eyes was droopy from age and fat, as well as living her whole life for gossip. Her brunette hair had the curls of yesteryear.
"Oh child, it is such a horrible thing that William passed. At least he died fighting for our country."
"No, he died in a car accident."
"If I can get my hand on that reckless other driver, I'll strangle him myself!"
"There was no other driver. He was falling-drunk and drove into a bridge support."
"I'm sorry, Ivy. But you are so pretty. You'll find a new husband in no time."
Flap, Ivy's black gloved right slapped across aunt Mathilda's face. Uncle Benjamin's mouth dropped open and a broccoli crown rolled down his shirt and landed somewhere between his thighs. "How dare you," Ivy's voice screeched through the hunting lodge like a firework rocket whistles on takeoff.
Ivy surged up onto her black Dolce & Gabbana high heels. Her bare legs showed below the Skaist Taylor tight, black, mid-thigh dress. Only a young person would show that much skin at a funeral. Daisy, Ivy's best friend, rose from her table, pulling on the tablecloth that a young lad swiftly grabbed to hold the plates on top of the table. The two ladies stormed out leaving utter silence in their wake.
Outside was a porch with a rustic untreated, wooden railing. The wood was so weathered that it had been bleached and roughened. Ivy squatted down, hugging her legs to her chest, and started bawling. Her lungs were shaking, emotion flooding out of her. She was a little, black bundle on the stilts of her high heels. Daisy, severely constrained by her tight dress and super high heels, side hugged Ivy from behind, slowly patting on her back. "I'm here. Just let it all out."
A young lad peeled away from one of the circles of people talking in front of the lodge and smoking. He was dressed in a black jeans, actually rather gray from the many machine wash cycles, a dark blue Gap shirt, and his nicest sneakers. "Hey, William and I went hunting a couple of times. I wanted to give my condolences before the game is starting. Notre Dame..."
"Not now," hissed Daisy. Her shaking raised finger was an inch from his eye. Her eyes were shooting fire and devastation out of murderous, protective rage. She had swiveled around in a second.
The young lad walked down the steps of the porch backwards. With terror in his pitch black eyes and ghostly white face, his reticular activation system had narrowed onto Daisy, as if a white shark had jumped at him out of the blue sky.
Mies was standing in the door. He had followed them out to see what had happened. Mies was in the inner circle of William's friends. He had a blond crew cut that made his chiseled face stand out. His strong chest made any shirt and suit look good. He was a contractor. He worked all day with his hands. And his body was buff from carrying wooden beams around and lifting heavy bricks. He stood there, easy as ever, centered as ever, and warm as ever like a cuddly, yet very sexy, teddy bear.
